


permets-tu?

by rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, LOVE and FEELINGS, M/M, also the formatting on this is weird? i couldn't change it so it's indented in odd places. sorry, don't read this if you hate run-on sentences, everyone is HAPPY and SAFE, grantaire and enjolras more like GAYtaire and ENGAYLRAS, i will show myself out, no one is white or straight, your author is the governor of runonsentence town USA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars/pseuds/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s dumb jacket and kisses him, and it is good."</p><p>also known as the one where everyone is gay and nothing is sad</p>
            </blockquote>





	permets-tu?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enjollrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjollrass/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Les Amemes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261430) by [Enjollrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjollrass/pseuds/Enjollrass). 



> HELLO so this is a fic based off of chapter 8 of les amemes where grantaire and enjolras finally fix their lives? if you've read les amemes then...continue on and have fun! if not, basically it's the pretty standard garden variety grantaire loves enjolras from a distance and enjolras also loves grantaire from a distance and both of them think they are making the other person happy by NOT admitting their feelings for each other and then they FINALLY figure it out and then THEY MAKE OUT. that's it. also you should probably read les amemes after this because it's fucking DELIGHTFUL. if you see any mistakes, lemme know please! okay see you at the bottom enjoy yourself

            It’s a beautiful day in France. The sky is blue, there are at least two bunny shaped clouds, and all the birds are singing. Grantaire is not in the mood to appreciate this. Instead, he is waiting in a train station for one very beautiful, very chickenshit Frenchman.

            He’d come to pick Enjolras up with Marius, Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, but upon arrival, they’d immediately made their excuses and disappeared (supposedly) to the corner store across the street. Now he’s waiting here alone, having no idea what to expect about Enjolras’s mood and having no way to entertain himself, as he’s afraid that he’ll miss Enjolras if he looks away from the train. He heaves out a sigh so loud that the woman next to him looks slightly alarmed and inches away.

            _Finally_ , the train pulls up and people start pouring off, multicolored pinpoints against gray concrete, a moving, urban Seurat. Grantaire squints fiercely and immediately dedicates himself to searching for Enjolras’s afro.

            The afro in question does not appear for upwards of two minutes and twenty-seven seconds (R is counting). Then, like a bolt from the blue, there he is, wearing a red jacket and weighed down by a backpack and a thermos, shoving his way through the crowd. Enjolras makes it all the way through the turnstile before he looks up and sees Grantaire. He blanches, stammers nervously, and then turns and attempts to fling himself over the turnstile again. His backpack get stuck, though, and he flails like a stranded turtle momentarily before he crashes to the ground, spreadeagle. Grantaire frowns. Enjolras looks up and manages an uncomfortable smile.

            “Oh, hey,” he says. “Um. I thought Cosette--”

            Grantaire stomps over to him and says, “ _Enjolras_ ,”

            Enjolras goes quiet.

            Grantaire grabs his arm and hauls him up to his feet.

            “I--”

            “I just don’t get it,” Grantaire says tightly, like he’s swallowed a piece of cauliflower that’s not cooked all the way and is getting stuck, or like he’s very upset and might cry because Enjolras was kind of a dick for disappearing like he did and Grantaire is maybe developing abandonment issues from it. “Why did you leave?”

            Enjolras blanches yet again. Grantaire is in his face, breathing heavily, glaring. “Grantaire, listen, I’m sorry. I know I owe you an explanati--”

            “You’re goddamn _right_ you do,” Grantaire snarls. Enjolras has super long eyelashes. Grantaire fucking hates this guy.

            Enjolras swallows and says, “I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I shouldn't have just kissed you like that. It was wrong, okay, and I know that, and I was drunk and--God, I know that’s not a good excuse, but really, I’m really sorry, and--”

            “So you regret it?” Grantaire says. Enjolras shifts, with an expression on his face that says he very much wants to answer this question correctly and yet is entirely unsure about how he can make that happen.

            “Yes? Yes. I regret it because it obviously made you uncomfortable, and that's the _last_ thing I want to do. I’m so--”

            “But… so...then... you… you _don’t_ like me like that…do you?” Grantaire says. In his anger, he’s stepped so close to Enjolras that their chests are pressed together, and he can see every freckle on Enjolras’s light brown cheeks.

            “I mean… I, um…. like I said before, I just, uh…” Enjolras sputters, blinking rapidly. He tries to step back, directing his gaze to the ground. Grantaire follows him. Silence hangs heavy in the air.

            “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Grantaire says finally.

            “What?” Enjolras asks, snapping his head up so quick he almost knocks Grantaire in the nose.

            “The kiss,” Grantaire says impatiently. Enjolras makes a choking noise. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

            “What the hell do you mean? Look, I thought you _hated_ me--”

            Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s dumb jacket and kisses him, and it is good.

            There have been times in Grantaire's life where he felt immeasurably inspired by a work of art. A painting, maybe, or a really good book or a song that is the auditory version of an on-just-the-right-side-of-greasy piece of pizza. And then when he'd tried to do something with that inspiration, the product just wasn't great. It wasn't bad. Just not the masterpiece he was looking for.

            Being with Enjolras feels like that unreachable masterpiece. Kissing Enjolras feels like he tried to do a line drawing of a Beyoncè picture and accidentally ended up with the Mona Lisa. Having his hands in Enjolras's soft curls feels like he meant to pick out the chords for _Stairway To Heaven_ on the guitar and instead created a song that gets played at the actual gates of Heaven before you walk in. Having Enjolras's tongue in his mouth feels like being a little bit drunk and throwing noodles and cheese into a pot and then getting something so good that Gordon Ramsay begs to suck your dick for the secret recipe. Long story short, it's a good kiss, really good in the truest sense of the word, in the dictionary definition way that means _to be desired and approved of_ , and it's over too soon. Grantaire can really only hope that Enjolras had as good of a time as he did. It would be more than a little awkward if he didn’t.

            Enjolras blinks again and says, “Oh.”

            Grantaire huffs and he’ll be damned if Enjolras ruins this again and he’s gonna say his piece like it or not _goddammit_ , so he blurts, “I don’t hate you,”

Enjolras makes a face like _duh._

Grantaire huffs again and tries to collect himself. “I don’t hate you,” he repeats, firmly this time. “I could never hate you. I don’t always get why you believe in the things that you do, and we don’t always agree on those things--okay, we never agree on those things--but if there is anyone in the world who could makes those things come true, it’s you. Only you. I don’t know a lot of things. All I know is that I believe in _you_.”

            Enjolras breaks out into a grin. Grantaire groans internally because this feels like Enjolras is about to yell _HAHA YOU’RE ON CANDID CAMERA LAUGH IT UP YOU GAY LOSER I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU_. And then he leans in and tips his forehead against Grantaire's forehead and grins again in a way that’s too intimate for such a public setting and lights Grantaire's every part aflame anyway. “Do you permit it?” Enjolras breathes. His breath smells like weak mint toothpaste and really strong coffee. Grantaire is fine with it because smelling that means that he gets to be _that_ close to Enjolras’s face.

            “Apollo,” Grantaire says breathlessly, feeling at once like he is disintegrating and being rebuilt from dust.

            “Do you?” Enjolras asks, mouth curled in a smile. Grantaire nods and nods and nods again and Enjolras cups his jaw a little and kisses him. Grantaire wants to say he tastes like fresh fruit and smells like cinnamon and mountain air, a smell that all millennials can identify thanks to fanfiction.net. He doesn’t, not really. He tastes like coffee and cheap cupcake frosting, and he smells like stale train air and the peach scented, ethically sourced, fair trade, wholly organic deodorant that he buys in bulk off the internet. He nips at Grantaire’s lower lip and the masterpiece is back. Grantaire closes his eyes and he sees what he thinks might be all the colors of a sunset behind his eyelids. Another good kiss. A great kiss. One for the books. They have a great track record so far.

-o-

            Afterwards, Grantaire forgets the fact that everything else in the world exists because he and Enjolras are walking back to the car _hand in fucking hand_.

But then Combeferre calls and sounds like a white dad who caught you on the couch in the den with your hand up your girlfriend’s shirt but is gonna let it slide, a little disappointed and a lot _go get ‘em tiger._ Grantaire does not have time to ruminate on why Combeferre sounds so knowing, because he has to navigate turning around in a very crowded parking lot and creaking back to the station, and everything is remarkably less perfect with four other people in the backseat breathing down their necks. Grantaire is weirdly protective of whatever this relationship might be and he feels kind of how he felt the first time he saw Gustav Klimt’s _The Kiss_ and thought it was the best thing ever and then tried to shove a kid into a trashcan after that kid said _his_ favorite painting was _The Kiss_ because _shut **up** , Trevor, _The Kiss _is **my** favorite painting it’s MY THING get in the trash you punk ass fifth grader. _Grantaire really does not want to shove anyone into a trashcan based off of pure reflex.

            Then Courfeyrac announces that he has found the best plant Instagram ever and everyone has to look at it. Cosette cracks a joke about how one of the lilacs looks like a dick mid-ejaculation and everyone breaks down into hysterical laughter at the awful accuracy of that statement, including Grantaire, who feels the trashcan feeling recede measure by measure until it’s gone entirely.

            Combeferre causes a ruckus shortly after because there’s a really good Pokemon nearby and everyone wants to go catch it, so Grantaire hands his phone to Enjolras so he can try and get it, and their fingers brush and Grantaire drops the phone like a fucking idiot and then Enjolras beams at him and says, “My bad, dude,” and manages to brush his thumb across the back of Grantaire’s hand anyway and Grantaire’s brain lights up just from that like they’re in a fucking Victorian novel.

            Grantaire stutters _uh yeah_ and then almost crashes the car because Cosette yells, “ _Gross_ , get married already,”

            “Gross,” Grantaire parrots, a la Cosette. “Shut the fuck up, ‘Sette.”

            Cosette gives him a big wink from the backseat where she is sitting on Marius’s lap, seatbelted to his chest. Marius has his chin in her dark hair and his long, freckled arms draped over her shoulders like another version of a seatbelt. Grantaire wonders absently about asking Marius about this unnameable feeling in his chest. Marius, who, despite being very clumsy and having a habit of pretending that he doesn’t actually need glasses when he _really_ does, has a lot of really good opinions about global warming and how welfare should be apportioned, and is also in a very healthy and stable relationship that Grantaire has often been ever so slightly jealous of. It’s hard to be jealous of Marius and Cosette, actually, because they just seem to be doing so well that it inspires happiness, rather than envy. In spite of being very different, they have one thing in common, and it’s that they love each other. Grantaire thinks he might have some idea what that’s like.

            Enjolras’s hand finds Grantaire’s where the cupholders afford them a slight cover and they both ride home smiling wide.

            -o-

            After, Grantaire gets the biggest canvas he can afford and covers it in paint, all the colors he saw behind his eyes melting into perfect harmony. He can't identify it, exactly, can’t pinpoint the random shapes and curves, but when Èponine sees it, she comments on the unmistakable figure with a golden crown of hair and an aura of red haloing it. Grantaire smiles. A good kiss, a good painting, a good ending. He'll permit it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WOW I LOVE GARBAGE   
> this was very fun to write. thanks to enjollrass for lending me your interpretations of the characters for a bit, we had a good time together. as always, i am your most humble and obedient servant on twitter @jamesmadisin and tumblr @irltrash. come talk to me! concrit/love/appreciation in the form of a paypal donation is always desired. k love you bye!!


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